


He Is Love

by enigmalea



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Introspection, M/M, No Porn, No Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 06:10:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigmalea/pseuds/enigmalea
Summary: The Holmes Brothers have always had similar tastes. An introspective look on both Mycroft and Sherlock loving John Watson.





	He Is Love

**Author's Note:**

> Something a little different sparked by a random idea of "what if Mycroft and Sherlock both loved John?". No major relationship development or romance, just a bit of introspection.
> 
> Edited a bit for clarity now that I've made it home. This was originally written hastily and posted from my work computer.

He’s not sure when it happened... when he fell in love with Doctor John Watson. It was either sometime shortly before or shortly after the Fall, but an exact moment eludes him.

He was aware, of course, the first time he saw the shorter man, there was _something_ about him. Something about the way his blue eyes sought the exits and entrances to the room, silently surveying potential threats or routes to safety; the way he checked corners and took note of where people may be hidden; the way that tremor in his hand stopped when his blood started pumping and his heart rate picked up.

He had read the file - army doctor, shot in the shoulder, psychosomatic limp, hand tremor - but that hadn’t prepared him for the man. Quiet and unassuming, yes, but secretly deadly, dangerous, and steady in the face of danger. He was as solid as his build, unwavering in his loyalty and unintimidated by brilliance.

He was, simply put, perfect.

 He found himself watching John frequently using Sherlock as an excuse. John Watson, alone, was no security threat, and yet, he still reviewed the CCTV footage, finding it amusing when John shouted at ATMs, became irritated with vending machines, and positively lost it with pin and chip machines. The same man who couldn’t stand to navigate a shop with too many people was happy living with Sherlock.

 It was fascinating. _He_ was fascinating.

Mycroft began fabricating reasons to see him. He was checking up on Sherlock, he told himself and the skeptical doctor, and since Sherlock wouldn’t see him, but John would, it seemed perfectly logical. Needs must, after all. In spite of the fact he hadn’t accepted the offer of money. In spite of the fact he’d firmly told Mycroft to bugger off.

It was either a testament to how much he liked Sherlock or (dare he think it) how much he liked Mycroft that John Watson put up with these meetings.

However, there was no reason why Mycroft began coming to John, meeting him in restaurants and coffee shops rather than sending Anthea to fetch him. There was no reason why Mycroft paid for his meals during these outings or why he attempted to deduce what John would order before he did it (he was usually wrong; why was that?).

He wasn’t foolish or sentimental enough to believe they were dating, or even that John Watson liked him… at all… but it still allowed him to see the man. Okay, to be truthful, he did hope that John liked him. He hoped it a lot, and he wasn’t sure why. Sometimes he wondered what John would do if he told him. How would he react? Could he dare to hope that John would smile and say something like ‘Oh, Mycroft, I’ve known for ages. Can we date properly now’? He held on to hope there was some possibility. He’d nursed his burgeoning feelings for the man with far more fervor than he should have.

At least, until the Fall.

He watched from afar as John Watson crumpled, all life and air sucked out of him with Sherlock’s “death”, and it broke his heart. He knew, with a conviction of certainty heretofore unfelt, he had accidentally fallen in love with John Watson. He’d wanted to hold the man tight, to whisper that it would be okay, to tell him… everything. Sherlock was alive, he would return, it was okay.

But he couldn’t. Not only was there the trick of Moriarty having completely discredited his brother, but also, if Sherlock was known to be alive, Moriarty’s cohorts would know he was coming. To tell John Watson Sherlock was safe, to spare him his pain, would put Sherlock in considerable danger.

So he did the next best thing. He offered himself as Sherlock’s replacement.

The all black car had pulled up next to the doctor, who as if by instinct had begun rolling his eyes, protests of ‘no!’ firmly interspaced between swear words. Rather than inviting him in, Mycroft had slipped from the leather interior and stepped onto the street, the driver sliding off with Anthea still in the backseat. John stilled then, eyes closed tight.

“Mycroft, I-“

“Lunch, John?” Mycroft had interrupted, ushering the man into the nearby sandwich shop. He’d been expecting a protest, but John offered none. John’s words had been shaky, almost breathless as if it hurt to even think of Mycroft, because it made him think of Sherlock.

They sat in silence, John looking worn and tired and thin. He’d lost weight; he probably wasn’t eating. Mycroft was nearly overcome by the urge to force John into moving in with him so he could look after him. He knew a few things that would be embarrassing enough that would make John concede. Thankfully, the waiter interrupted before Mycroft could speak foolishly and ensure the man would abandon him without at least eating a sandwich and some crisps.

“Coffee,” John had huffed reluctantly. “Black. BLT. Crisps.” His order was efficient, cold, with none of the usual warmth and congeniality John affected for wait staff. He didn’t even look at the man, simply handed him the menu as he stared at Mycroft with his haunted, hollow, blue eyes.

In sharp contrast, Mycroft glanced up at the man and offered a small smile, something he normally wouldn’t do. “I’ll have the grilled chicken Caesar salad, please. Just water for the drink” The smile and the please were added for John’s benefit, a reminder that he could be human, a reminder that John should _try_ to be.

John swallowed hard. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“How are you, John?” he asked, his voice revealing a bit more genuine interest than it should.

John flinched as if Mycroft’s kindness was an assault and not something to be believed. It took him a long time to open his eyes, and Mycroft could see barely contained anger in them. He’d never thought blue eyes could be fiery, but Watson’s were. They were positively emblazoned with rage. “No. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to ask that. It’s your fault he’s dead.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to flinch now. The expression on his face was blank, but he felt the telltale micro jerk of his shoulder, and he couldn’t help but wonder if John had spent enough time with his brother to pick up on it. His ego felt as if John had physically smacked him in public, but he was able to control the beating of his heart, and to prevent a visible flush from appearing on his skin. The urge to tell him Sherlock wasn’t dead was nearly too great to resist. “Nevertheless-“

“Nevertheless? Did you just ‘nevertheless’ the fact your younger brother _died_ because of you? Jesus-fuck-“ John was interrupted by the waiter’s arrival with coffee and water, and the announcement their sandwich and salad would be out shortly. He managed to give the waiter a small smile, an apology for his earlier curtness. When he turned back to Mycroft, some of the fire had died in his eyes, as if he were too weak to sustain that level of intense output for very long. “What do you want, Mycroft? You aren’t here to check on Sherlock. He’s where I left him… the bloody cemetery. So what could you possibly want?”

 _You._ Entirely inappropriate for the moment, Mycroft mused. He licked his lips, fingers idly toying with the edge of his napkin. He was momentarily saved the embarrassment of having to respond when the salad and sandwich arrived. With a flourish, he claimed his fork and waived over at John. “Tuck in.”

The doctor glared at him; he didn't like taking orders from him one bit. His jaw clenched, but he forced it to relax and took a sip of coffee, following it with a reluctant bite of his sandwich. Without so much as a word, he’d made it clear he had no intention of filling the awkward silence. He was waiting on Mycroft to explain himself.

For his part, Mycroft attempted to avoid the conversation as long as possible, taking his time to cut up his salad into bite-sized pieces. His salad held his attention completely; he wouldn’t look up to meet John’s eyes which he could feel boring into him with intensity. He waited, uncomfortable with the scrutiny until John had managed to eat half of his sandwich and was idly playing with his crisps, chewing on one or two at a time. Part of him wanted to wait until John had cleared his plate because Mycroft was under no illusion what the soldier’s response would be, and that it would entail him walking out. He wanted to make sure that, at least for the moment, John had eaten enough.

But he felt he couldn’t wait any longer.

“There… are some important matters… some _cases_ … if you will… in which I could use your expertise,” Mycroft began softly. He’d only made it through part of his salad, but his fork rested on the bowl, and he looked up to meet John’s gaze.

“No,” John said without hesitation.

Mycroft cleared his throat, “that is to say… your country needs you, John.” Appealing to his patriotism had meant to be a last resort, but Mycroft couldn’t keep himself composed around John Watson. Not really. Not that anyone could tell. It was a desperate move, really.

“Fuck you.” Well, he’d not expected a different response. “You need Sherlock, but you let him die. You let him kill himself, because you… you gave his enemy everything he needed to destroy him. I can’t do what Sherlock did.”

He couldn’t stop himself from sighing then, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. John Watson had a way of pushing his emotions to the surface, and his words – though not factual – were grating. At that moment, Mycroft felt responsible for the death of a man who hadn't died. He was, in reality, sort of, responsible for Sherlock having to go dark. John hesitated for a moment, watching as Mycroft’s carefully constructed mask faltered for the first time that he'd witnessed. Mycroft inhaled deeply, placed his palms flat on the table, and straightened his back. “John, for these… _cases_ … I would be Sherlock… and you would be… you.”

“Hah! Hell no. You could never be Sherlock,” John spat, he pushed himself back from the table, threatening to leave. He teetered on the edge, intrigued by what Mycroft was offering, but unwilling to accept it.

“I’m smarter than Sherlock,” Mycroft bristled. He cleared his throat, forced his mask back on. “But, I could use your help, John.” A lie, but one that wasn’t far from the truth. John needed his help. John needed work. John needed… Mycroft.

“Maybe, but you’re colder, too. Barely human,” John whispered. “What you did to him… he could never do to you. You can’t replace him. No one can. Don’t _ever_  contact me again.” And with that, the army doctor strode from the restaurant.

Mycroft held it together while he paid and while he rode in silence with Anthea; he even held it together as he stalked the halls of MI6 until he reached his office. It wasn’t until he took his seat that his mask crumbled and he let the tears fall. He had effectively destroyed John Watson; the man he loved. He was hollow, broken, and nothing he could offer could repair it. This had been his only hope. He wasn’t sure how long he cried, how long the sobs wracked his body and he drew out strangled gasps for air. He hadn’t cried like this since Eurus had killed Victor and burned down their home; since he’d had to come to grips with the fact his baby sister was a murderer. With a shaking hand, he’d picked up his cellphone and typed a brief message to Anthea.

_Downgrade Doctor John Watson’s security status. He is no longer a threat. MH_

 

* * *

 

He is absolutely positive the precise moment in which he fell in love with Doctor John Watson, though at the time he didn’t know it. It was the moment in the cab when he reluctantly yet fully explained to John precisely how he knew what he knew about Harry, and when John finished listening to his explanation, he looked at him with those sparkling blue eyes and said almost breathlessly, “extraordinary.”

It was such a small thing, but Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat and his palms grew sweaty and he forgot to think. He’d smiled. _Smiled_.

Before that moment, he’d simply noted the Doctor was attractive, intriguing, and a bit smarter than the average dullard he was used to dealing with. At that moment, however, Sherlock realised, John Watson was special. Unequivocally special. He wanted to keep him close. He wanted to be friends with him. He wanted… he wanted more.

It never seemed right, however, to say something to Watson about it. After all, he was (as he diligently reminded everyone frequently) not gay. There was something in the way John said that, though that made every hair on Sherlock’s arms stand on end, something rang not quite _right_ or true about the statement, though John didn’t appear to be lying. _The lady doth protest too much, methinks._

He’d begun to suspect maybe John was saying that for Sherlock’s benefit, or maybe he was trying to remind himself, based on what Sherlock had said at Angelo’s. But it was too dark, too murky, the patterns weren’t clear enough for Sherlock to latch onto and deduce anything from. He couldn't navigate it clearly to a logical deduction.

What he could latch onto was the way John’s eyes lit up when he solved cases. The way he complimented him almost breathlessly. The way he watched him so closely. The way he’d kill for him. The way he’d die for him.

For his part, Sherlock was aware of how his own breath would hitch when John stepped a bit too close. The way his brain would falter and he would lose his train of thought if John looked particularly studious or serious or commanding or… too _John_. He could follow the pattern where John Watson had silently inserted himself into Sherlock’s life and had begun to become the center of his universe. He could see where he was attracted to John, unable to resist him. He could see he was overwhelmed with John’s presence. He could see, quite clearly, John Watson was everything.

But it took the Fall for him to actually consciously accept it. Before the Fall there was physical attraction, the begrudging acceptance there was the potential for more.

After the Fall, there was a burning desire to fix things, to _fix_ John. He’d never have done what he’d done if John hadn’t been in true danger. He’d have never let Moriarty come between them. But he'd had to, to keep him safe, or risk losing him forever. Then he’d made the mistake of going to the cemetery, watching John nearly fall apart, listening to his devoted words, his _almost, but not quite_ declaration.

It had been incredibly difficult to board a plane to parts unknown afterward and leave him there without explaining, without telling him he was still alive, without letting him know things would be okay. But he’d stayed strong and he’d done it. It only got harder in the coming days… months… years. The only thing which distracted him from the pain he felt at being without John – at waking up without him, not solving cases with him, not having his presence nearby when he ate or read the paper or watched telly – was the occasional physical pain from when he was tortured if Moriarty’s men happened to catch him. That didn’t happen often. Perversely, it didn't happen nearly often enough.

The rest of the time, he existed in a dulled state, only half-living because he only had half of himself. The rest of him was with John: thinking about him, worrying about him, having entire conversations about his day with him (‘How was your day, John?’ ‘My card was eaten by the ATM again, Sherlock, so pretty shitty. How was yours?’ ‘Oh, you know, not bad. I managed to assassinate two of Moriarty’s network members in Cairo, but I was captured when I tore my ACL jumping out of the window. Currently locked in an underground cell awaiting torture.’ ‘Hmmm… worse than mine, then.’ ‘Indeed.’).

The conversations grew in complexity and clarity until Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what had happened and what was a trick of his mind palace. Had he ever really asked John if he could kiss him? Had he told the man how much he loved him? Had he told John that he was the center of his universe? He was fairly certain he had not, but the desire to do so made the fantasies so realistic they were nearly palpable.

And then as suddenly as it began, Mycroft was pulling him from Serbia, telling him he was needed in England. He was given a haircut, made clean shaven, provided a suit and thankfully, his trusty Belstaff. He felt more like _himself_ than he had in years. He could almost feel John’s appreciative eyes on him, could almost sense the smile that tugged at the doctor's lips when the game was on.

They’d discussed John briefly at MI6 and then Mycroft had loaded him into a car and driven him to a park, away from prying eyes and ears. Anthea had been instructed to lose the CCTV footage for the length of their conversation. She would make sure it was done, even if she wasn't entirely clear on why.

The Brothers Holmes sat on a bench, not looking at one another. Mycroft swallowed thickly, as if he wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure how. He cleared his throat, crossed his legs, fidgeted. It was very unlike Mycroft to be uncertain. “Sherlock, I need to make you aware… I had to stop my surveillance of John Watson.”

“What? Why?” Sherlock asked, bristling at Mycroft’s confession. “When?” This was unnerving. John was okay, he'd seen evidence of that, but he was okay  _now_. He'd trusted Mycroft to keep an eye on the injured soldier, to make sure he'd be safe, that he'd stay sane. What had John gone through?

“About a month after you went dark,” he answered nonchalantly. Sherlock felt anger rising within him. How could Mycroft be so casual? He pushed away the anger. Of course his brother could be cold and casual about this. He had no idea how to be human. “With you gone there was no reason to keep his security risk elevated, and so…”

“His association with me was enough. I was a tarnished man. Mycroft, what is the real reason?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and studied his brother closely. Mycroft shifted under the scrutiny. There was something Mycroft was refusing to tell him.

Mycroft barely glanced at Sherlock, licked his lips and sighed. The mask crumbled then, and Sherlock saw something he hadn’t seen years – the _true_ Mycroft. It was unnerving. Mycroft looked... tortured. “I… couldn’t see him, the way he was… without you here. I couldn't review the footage, see the pictures.” Mycroft's voice caught, and the hair on Sherlock's arms stood on end. Why did Mycroft of all people sound like  _that_?

“Why not?”

“I… I became attached.”

“To John?” Sherlock scoffed. “You don’t become attached to anyone, least of all John.” He had tensed, almost imperceptibly to anyone who wasn’t a Holmes. His fist had clenched slightly. He had an urge to swing on his brother, but he was fighting it. Mycroft was admitting to having  _feelings_. About John.  _His_ John.

“I… love him,” Mycroft whispered. He had a feeling he’d be inviting his brother’s wrath, which could be quite fearsome under the right circumstance. This was the right circumstances. He was tense, waiting for Sherlock's reaction.

"He's mine," Sherlock snapped, without meaning to. He flushed a bit at the force of his confession. Mycroft was kind enough to wait until Sherlock had regained control before continuing.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed. He may have hoped for something more at some point, but John's reaction to Sherlock's 'death' had told him all he needed to know. He had no hope for anything with John Watson, at least anything more than a begrudging acceptance. "But I love him, all the same."

Sherlock laughed, then, not a true and full laugh, but one full of derision and scorn. “You don’t know what love is.”

Mycroft exhaled slowly, nodded once, and the mask slipped back up. The moment, whatever it had been was gone. “Regardless, I’ve only just caught up on the most recent surveillance, just before you arrived back in England. Sherlock, you should know, John has moved on.”

“Yes. He no longer resides at Baker Street. It’s inconsequential. He’ll come back as soon-“

“Ah no. Well, yes, but that’s not what I mean Sherlock. He… he’s seeing someone. He has a… girlfriend. It’s… serious from what we gather. He intends to propose,” Mycroft explained. He reached into his inner coat pocket withdrawing an envelope and passing it to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened the envelope and flipped through the pictures quickly and without comment. He handed them back to his brother, his hand shaking slightly, but not quite as much as Mycroft’s. It was the only indication either of them gave that this current situation bothered them. Mycroft tucked the pictures back into his coat and then entwined his fingers and rested his hands on his lap. “Who is she?”

“We’re looking into it. There’s remarkably little information about her,” Mycroft answered after a moment. “But I’m sure there’s something.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock replied noncommittally. He stood abruptly and began to walk off.

“Sherlock, what are you going to do?” Mycroft called, an eyebrow raised at his younger brother. Sherlock had turned to face Mycroft when he heard his name, his grey-blue eyes were full of some emotion that Mycroft couldn't place.

“Make sure he’s happy,” the consulting detective replied without hesitation. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff to hide just how badly they were shaking.

Mycroft had not expected that answer. He had expected Sherlock to show the things he’d been feeling. Disappointment. Frustration. Jealousy. Maybe a bit of rage. How dare this woman think she could take John from them? He raised an eyebrow. “Why would you do that?” he asked.

Sherlock’s shoulder raised in a half-shrug. “Because I love him,” he answered simply. He turned to leave, but Mycroft stopped him once again.

“Do _you_ know what love is, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked, echoing his brother’s sentiment from just a few moments ago.

Sherlock turned at the question, studying Mycroft intently. “Of course,” he replied without hesitation. “It’s John Watson.”

Mycroft chuckled as Sherlock turned and left the park quickly. He didn’t try to stop him again; he was a man on a mission, and if the conversation lasted much longer someone would question where the footage had gone and what it contained. Still, Mycroft couldn’t help but muse that perhaps his brother was right. John Watson was love.


End file.
